


Brand New Feeling

by Kedreeva



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Asexual Character, Asexual Relationship, Asexuality, Beach Holidays, Beach House, Day At The Beach, Fluff, Gen, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Sunbathing, Wing Grooming, Wing Oil, Wingfic, Wings, dust bathing, preening
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2020-07-09 16:29:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19890886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kedreeva/pseuds/Kedreeva
Summary: A peaceful day dustbathing and preening at the beach.





	Brand New Feeling

_Never thought I'd feel like this_

_Like when I close my eyes and_

_Don't even care if anyone sees me dancing_

_Like I can fly, and don't even think of touching the ground_

Crowley struggled to consciousness, opening sleep-sticky eyes and stretching out one hand to find the other side of the bed cold. His tongue flicked out, but there was no scent of breakfast on the air. He closed his eyes again, took a few slow breaths, and then pried himself out of his warm spot on the bed to sit on the edge of it. It may have been the middle of summer, but he still got chilled overnight sometimes, especially when he was alone.

"'Ziraphale?" he called, the words clinging to the insides of his mouth, not ready to be awake yet, either.

When he received no response at all, he glared hard at the doorway, as if it should produce Aziraphale by will alone. It did not. It was only a door. Crowley would have words with it about that later, but for now, he got to his feet and scrubbed his hands through his hair. He unfolded his pants from the day before and put them on like some kind of human, one leg at a time.

A thorough search of the house also did not produce Aziraphale, but it did give him a note taped to the coffee machine even Crowley wouldn't actually use, which read simply:

_Went to beach -A_

Crowley scowled and taped the note back onto the coffee machine.

The _beach_.

Crowley did not exactly appreciate the beach, but Aziraphale had wanted to go on holiday to one, and when Aziraphale wanted something, there was very little in the world that could stop Crowley from giving it to him. So, despite the burns-like-consecrated-ground sand and the endless sunlight reflected painfully off of a kaleidoscope of waves, they had booked a flight and a beach house and a few more beach houses around it so they would have the beach to themselves, and they had come here to pretend they were not winding down from very nearly not saving the entirety of existence.

They had spent the entire first night very pointedly ignoring the shaking of their hands and the trembling of their hearts as they tried not to think of how close they had come to losing one another. Crowley had lived up to his reputation as a snake, winding himself around Aziraphale until he wasn't sure whose heart kept which beat- though he suspected that, for a time, they were the same. Aziraphale had let him, shaky hands soothing slowly over whatever part of Crowley he could reach, reassurances falling his lips like benediction.

The world had not ended, and neither had they.

They were alive. They had made it.

They were safe.

Crowley had not let go until morning light filtered through the window and woke him. Aziraphale had stayed awake all night, watching over him.

"You look so peaceful, when you sleep," Aziraphale had whispered against the crown of Crowley's hair. "I could get used to seeing that."

Crowley had made them breakfast - nothing fancy, regrettably - and if his hands shook a little less, Aziraphale didn't mention it. Crowley returned the favor, and kept his mouth shut. Now he found himself doing the same, putting together breakfast foods that could be enjoyed at the beach. He arranged sliced fruits in a bowl and set a container of yogurt and a small bowl of granola and a silverware onto the tray beside it. He poured orange juice and champagne into two glass flutes that appear in his hand one by one, and then moved everything around so it looked attractive. Let it never be said that Crowley did not pay attention to aesthetic.

He gave the entire tray a once-over and nodded to himself before carefully lifting it and heading for the back door. There was a deck with a bunch of chairs they hadn't unstacked and a table with an umbrella that likely had all manner of insects Crowley had no desire to disturb and, most importantly, two steps down to the sandy beach.

Thankfully the sand at the bottom had not had time to warm to scalding. Crowley stepped carefully down into it, wary of his balance in the slippery material, and began to head for the picnic table on the beach. On the far side of it, he could see a lump of white feathers down by the surf.

Aziraphale didn't move at all as he approached, his massive, lanky wings spread out over the sand. He had scraped a shallow hollow beneath him to lie in the cooler sand beneath and was wallowing in it, eyes half lidded. Crowley toed a little bit of sand onto him, and Aziraphale shifted to stare up at him in a haze. Warmth bloomed under Crowley's breastbone, completely unrelated to the sun.

"I brought breakfast," Crowley told him, lifting the tray enough to draw attention without spilling anything.

Blinking slow, Aziraphale seemed to gather himself, his sand-coated wings furling halfway before he used them to balance himself as he staggered to his feet, sand cascading off of every bit of him. He'd been dustbathing, likely for a while, if his torpor was anything to go by, and it must have deteriorated into plain sunbathing with a layer of sand.

"You got my note," he said, voice a little slurry, warm with a dozy sort of happiness.

Crowley blocked his hand before he could get to the tray where Crowley had set it on the edge of the picnic table. "You're filthy," Crowley told him, the corner of his lip smiling at Aziraphale's petulant look.

A light came to Aziraphale's eyes and Crowley had just enough warning to raise one wing to shield the food and the other his face as Aziraphale fluffed all of his feathers up at once and shook off most of the sand in a full body shake. "Is that better?"

"You really are a wanker sometimes, you know?" Crowley told him, lowering his wing. "What would you have done if I didn't stop you shaking off in the food?"

"We'll never know," Aziraphale said with a little widening of his eyes, snapping his skin actually clean before reaching for a slice of fresh peach. His eyes slid closed as he bit into it, and Crowley was especially glad he had taken the time to buy actual food instead of manifesting it. Miracled food always had a slightly electric aftertaste, like it had been too close to a lightning strike.

Crowley snagged a piece for himself, a strawberry, and flicked his tongue at it before biting. Strawberries, unsurprisingly, had one of the best scents on the planet. He'd spent more than one June on his scaled belly in a field of the plants, soaking in the scent of damp soil and greenery and sharp, sweet strawberry.

"I'm sorry I didn't wake you," Aziraphale said, a few pieces of fruit later. He idly licked a sticky finger, considering, and then stared out over the water. "I didn't want to miss the sunrise and you looked so... at ease."

"Easy to do out here," he said, eyes tracing over the lines of Aziraphale's body. Whole. Alive. "Doesn't feel like the world's trying to step on us."

A fleeting smile touched Aziraphale's lips. "There is that, yes." He glanced over at Crowley, eyes softening. "No responsibilities either. No mismatched sides telling us-" He cut off with a small, sharp breath, mouth snapping closed.

Crowley had spent a lot of time after his Fall wanting to know what he'd done wrong, wanting to know why he'd been cast out, wanting to know what he could do to return, how he could repent. Every second of that time paled in comparison to the moment of blind rage Crowley felt at the memory of Gabriel saying so blithely _shut your stupid mouth and die already_. He would personally pluck the wings off every angel left in that bright hellscape if it would erase the catch in Aziraphale's voice over the hurt that had been done.

"Come on," he said gently, wings and arms opening a little.

Aziraphale went willingly, if a little slowly, slipping his arms around Crowley's middle and resting his head on Crowley's shoulder, ear against him. Crowley knew why. He knew what it felt like, to listen for a heartbeat. Even though he'd lived it, he couldn't fathom how they had dealt with existence before them. Hearts were so goddamned useful and comforting and fragile.

"You're still filthy," Crowley said after a good moment, and Aziraphale puffed a laugh into his chest. "Don't expect to be getting in bed with me like that. Sand everywhere. Sand in places you didn't even know you had."

"You'll just have to help me clean it, then," Aziraphale told him, pulling back and stepping away, fingers lingering a second too long. "You know, I started molting just before the end of the world. It's intolerable. Itchy."

"Oh?"Crowley asked, indulgent, amused. In his opinion, it was the finest gift of the post-apocanot that Aziraphale had started, hesitantly but surely, using _words_ to directly ask for what he wanted from Crowley. No more hiding, no more guessing. "Me too."

With an agreeable hum, Aziraphale gestured to the shallow scrape he'd been in a few minutes ago. "You should try the sand, it really is lovely."

"I have done," Crowley said, popping a blueberry into his mouth. "Not here, but I know what it's like. A bit... divine."

"I would have said sinful," Aziraphale said. He did not have to be looking at Crowley for Crowley to see the grin dancing at his lips.

"Maybe a bit of both," Crowley amended.

"Just like us." Aziraphale really did smile then, and turned his attention more fully to the food.

They ate in comfortable silence for a little, relaxing at the table and staring out over the soothing, seemingly endless waves. On some level, Crowley knew how they worked. He knew about currents and ocean floors and that the other side of the puddle had a shore somewhere, too. He knew how to carve an ocean planet and where to set the moon for tides; he'd made more than one of each. He'd placed them out among the stars and set them spinning.

So _he knew_ , but it was one thing to know from the distance of being an ethereal being large enough to hold a planet in the curve of one wing, and yet another entirely to sit before an amount of water in perpetual motion and so vast that he could not see the other side. It was one thing to know something and another to see it in overwhelming action, great and beautiful and _safe_ , because of them.

"Crowley," Aziraphale said softly, and Crowley quickly wiped the edge of his eye with the heel of his hand as he avoided looking over.

"Yeah?" A million excuses and explanations lived and died on his tongue in the following heartbeat. "I'm okay. Just... happy."

It felt like rebellion to say, and in a way it _was_. Demons were not supposed to be _happy_. But then, Crowley wasn't really all demon anymore, not the way he'd been before the end didn't happen. Not the way he'd been when he still had to obey the rules of Hell and fear the wrath of Heaven. Not the way he had been before he could do exactly as he did now, holding out his hand and watching Aziraphale place his own within it without hesitation.

"Me too," Aziraphale admitted, barely a sound over the ocean. "You know, I thought I'd known what that felt like before, but it doesn't at all compare."

"No," Crowley agreed. "It doesn't."

Aziraphale gave his hand a little squeeze before getting to his feet and pulling Crowley with him. "Enough of that, come along."

Crowley allowed himself to be led over to the scrape, his wings unfurling into reality as they went. The morning sun burned hot on his tar-black feathers, warming him as he stretched his wings wide to catch more of the golden rays. If Heaven had been so warm and welcoming, he might have actually missed it.

The sand held the false promise of heat, cool and damp beneath, but when Crowley sat and stirred it with his wings, it clung to his feathers. He'd already spent a lot more time than Aziraphale preening off feather sheaths and making sure that every feather was in its place, but he knew the sand would help buff them the way a good barber could clean split ends. He also knew that this was the exact reason Aziraphale wanted to get his hands into Crowley's feathers- they were _soft_. Softer than his own, even.

So Crowley had no complaints when Aziraphale joined him in the sand at just the right angle to lay a sandy, white wing in his lap and accept a sandy black wing in his own lap in return. They had done this before, around the rare times they molted and needed help getting the hard-to-reach feathers, but never quite so at ease about it. There had always been the sense that someone would look over their shoulder and catch them at it.

Now there was no one. Someone might come looking for them, sure, but it wouldn't be for this. It wouldn't be the reverent brush of Crowley's hands over Aziraphale's messy wing, or the fingers Aziraphale buried deep in Crowley's warm, dark feathers. They'd given Heaven and Hell too many other reasons to come for them, and a few very, very good reasons not to.

Thankfully the latter outweighed the former for now, which meant that Crowley got a few hours to lounge about on the beach with Aziraphale, preening out feathers that almost never saw a helping hand. He even went the extra mile, fingers rubbing over the soft patch on his own wrist to pull off the thin, water-resistant oil to work into each feather he touched until Aziraphale's wings practically glowed.

They couldn't, anymore, _actually_ glow, but with the noon sun scattering off the waves and reflecting off all of the sand and leaching into the pure white of his feathers, it came close enough.

"All done," Crowley murmured, smoothing a palm over the pristine wing so heavy on his lap. Aziraphale had spread the other one out and closed his eyes, soaking up the sunlight like the most indulgent of cats.

Aziraphale stirred and blinked at him, and then lifted his wing, careful not to ruffle anything Crowley had just worked so hard on. "Can we stay a little longer? The sun is so nice today."

"We can stay as long as you like," Crowley told him. Sunbathing was definitely on his list of favorite things to do, and having Aziraphale for company only improved his opinion of it.

Crowley shifted then, so that he could sprawl out on the sand, his head pillowed on his folded arms. The sun _did_ feel nice after all, and the company was hard to argue with and as long as he planted himself between the sun and the sand, it didn't get too hot to touch.

When Aziraphale stretched out on his belly, wings spread softly out over the sand to mirror him, Crowley found himself thinking that he could stay right here, just like this, for quite a long while, indeed.

**Author's Note:**

> Opening Lyrics from "Brand New" by Ben Rector.
> 
> I ended up combining sunbathing and dust bathing, because they usually go hand in hand. I hope you enjoyed!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] Brand New Feeling](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21474784) by [ExMarks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ExMarks/pseuds/ExMarks)




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